


Sam and the Eternal Quest for Absolution

by sarahjeanne21



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Pool, Sam-Centric, Self destruction, Slow Burn, Suicidal Sam, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, Wincest - Freeform, big boy words, poor baby sam, suicidal idealism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4681847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahjeanne21/pseuds/sarahjeanne21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's guilt is eating him inside out and he likes his brother a little too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Sam was sick. He was twisted up all wrong inside, fucked in the head probably before Yellow Eyes even entered the picture.

It had become something of a universal truth. Sam was intrinsically bad, Dean was his conscience. It was the core of their relationship. Sam was something Dean had to clean up after, had to watch carefully or risk the end of the world.

Yeah, it hurt when Dean looked at him like he wanted to hunt him, but Sam knew it was his own fault. The guilt was almost as bad as Dean telling him he wanted to kill him. Almost. He didn't blame Dean for telling him the truth. So when Dean checked and double checked where Sam was going, and why doesn't he let Dean do that, and Sam you're not in  _charge_ because last time you tried to make a decision you let the devil out -- so when Dean doesn't trust Sam, he gets it. He did that to himself.

(he'd ruined Dean just like he ruined the world he was a fucking disease and Dean should run he should kill him Sam should make Dean kill him)

And when Dean ditches Sam the first chance he gets,  _going out, Sam, don't fucking_ leave _,_ _Sam, wait for me_ , that's okay, too. And maybe Sam is a little jealous that Dean can get away from him, because he wants to ditch himself. He wants to crawl out of his skin and not remember who he is or what he did and feel like a person. But he's Sam fucking Winchester, and he doesn't really get a lot of privileges.

So what, Sam would always be Dean's fuck up little brother, so what he was kind of disposable at this point. So what Sam needed Dean more than Dean needed him. So what.

If he knew it would be so much worse.

Because Sam had been keeping secrets since he knew what secrets were. 

He'd always known he was off. He'd felt it in the way he got so _angry_ at the littlest things, in the way John eyed him after a particularly nasty fight, in the way he'd stare at his gun a little too long. But mostly, he felt it in the way he'd look at Dean the way Dean looked at pretty girls.

He'd tried to fix it. He'd tried to fix it with pills, with a knife, a bullet. He tried to fix it with magick before he realized how stupid that was. He tried to fix it in the middle of a hunt, but Dean was much too careful to let that happen. 

Eventually, he got scared enough to book it. It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. He left Dean, he left Dad, he left every safety net he'd ever known. Sam was  _alone_.

But college had been a decent band aid. After he stopped binge drinking and snapping at everyone who looked at him wrong, he managed to forget (not really). He passed it off as a phase. He Moved On.

And then he met Jess.

She was beautiful and patient and kind and nothing at all like Dean but Sam  _wanted_ her. In a way he hadn't wanted anyone since he moved out. She was probably the best thing that had ever happened to him. She was his everything. She showed him normal, she showed him what love was supposed to be like. She was his proof of insurance. His, hey I'm strait and I can be okay, card.

So he got his shit together. He set up his future. He was going to be a lawyer.

He was lying to himself. He still felt the same, deep down. He knew the kind of person he was. You can't change your DNA. People like him don't get college, or beautiful girlfriends, or normal. People like him didn't deserve it.

(he didn't deserve Jess and he knew it he shouldn't have  _touched_ her he'd ruined her he wasn't worth that what was wrong with him  _what the fuck was wrong with him_ )

Dean was clueless. He was lost and alone and scared and Sam wanted too much from him.

And Dean was so fucking clueless.

So he left (again), death trailing behind him like it fucking belonged there.

(it probably did)

He left his girlfriend, his friends, his scholarship, like the world revolved around him and no on else mattered, but Dean didn't see.

He never saw, with Sam.

So he got back on the road, he killed Jess like he killed him mom.

Sam's skin was smothering him and he felt like he'd been living too long.

He knew, he fucking  _knew_ he should leave Dean, should make him see what Sam did to the air around him, what he'd done to Dean. What he'd done to himself.

(didn't he see, though? Hadn't the apocalypse shown him?)

But he was selfish. Had been all his life, he just couldn't figure out how to  _stop_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'll try to update at least once a month. Concrit is welcome!


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is hustling pool and Sam is getting wasted.
> 
> (he's supposed to be Dean's backup but hey, nobody's perfect)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm not very happy with this chapter. I don't know why.  
> Also I'm sorry it took so long I guess I'm not very reliable :/ I'm going to work on the next chapter right now so my next uploads are super fast!!

Sam had already had too much to drink and Dean wasn’t even done with his first game. Sam had played his part, though, so he figured he deserved to get a little wasted. It was Dean's payback for coming home fucked six ways to Sunday ever other night.

They were on their way to Tennessee, tracking down a poltergeist. Dean had finally pulled into some no name town for the night, looking for a couple quick bucks and somewhere to sleep where he actually fit. Sam was also planning on getting shit faced drunk. He’d been cooped up with Dean too long, he thought.

It wasn't a bad bar to hustle in. The exits were right behind the pool table Sam and Dean took and the lighting was dark enough that Dean's beer bottle might be half empty or completely full. Dean was better at the game, he knew how to get under a guy's skin. So Sam walked in fifteen minutes after Dean, bought himself a couple shots to start the night off and then loudly challenged Dean to a game of pool. He won by a long shot, playing up how drunk he was. Dean made a show of being put out and forked over a couple twenties Sam wasn't gonna give back.

Sam retired to the bar. He watched Dean lean over the pool table, sloppily setting up his aim. He flashed a smile at the guy he was playing, probably trying to look plastered. He bit his lip in a way he must've thought looked like very deep concentration (he looked like a fucking idiot, but Sam's stomach tingled anyway). He knocked one into a far corner--it was a beginners shot, nothing to write home about--and smiled smugly. It was fake as shit, but only Sam could tell. 

Dean stretches himself over the felt and _jesus_ he was long. Sam trails his bobbing adam’s apple up to his curved nose, and his stupid green eyes. He feels it in the pit of his stomach, almost like butterflies except with more knifes, all dripping with sick and guilt and wrong.

Dean is pretending to concentrate again, pushing his lips out all stupid and then licking them. He misses the cue ball and almost pokes himself in the eye with his stick while he tells the bar exactly how outraged he is, and Sam really hates him. Wholeheartedly. Dean was such an idiot.

Sam is still staring when Dean catches his eye and winks. And why, God, _why_ couldn't Sam have been the attractive one? He doesn't smile back. He orders another shot and turns himself to the opposite wall. He pinches his leg (hold your liquor, Sam, behave, Sam) and throws back the whiskey.

Sam was disgusting, absolutely repulsive. He couldn’t control himself. He didn't know what was worse; Dean not knowing that his little brother was a fucking pervert or that Sam knew and let Dean subject himself to it. He was incredibly tired of degrading his big brother behind his back. It was just -- it was hard to be surrounded by Dean 24/7. It was hard to force himself to not think about him _that way_ , with Dean's shitty innuendos and his awful snoring and his complete trust, no questions asked, when Sam had to stitch him up. It was hard to pretend like nothing was wrong when Dean stayed out all night and came home reeking of someone else.

But Sam couldn’t complain. It was his own fault, anyway. Dean didn’t mean anything by it when he got a little too close, or when he made sure Sam's wounds weren't serious a little too thoroughly. Dean didn’t mean anything by it.

Sam knows what kind of bar he’s in, what kind of people he’s around. He knows exactly what kind of smile he’s giving the guy a few stools down, knows where his eyes linger as he checks the guy over for weapons.

The guy and his buddy are in his face, all high and mighty, because _his kind aren’t appreciated here_ and _why don’t they take this outside_.

Sam doesn’t fight back.

After, he drags himself over to a brick wall and watches his blood seep through his shirt. Maybe he drank a little too much. He figures Dean will find him at some point, and he really hates to be a hassle, but he’s very tired. And his face is very bloody. He doesn’t think the bar will let him back in.

Dean does find him, but not until Sam is shivering and the blood is mostly dried.

“Dude, what the hell happened?” Dean picks Sam up by his shirt and hauls him over to the car. Sam can feel the words grating against his throat, can hear himself telling Dean exactly how he deserved this, and Dean should probably join in, next time but the words get caught behind his tongue and Dean's done waiting for an answer. "You just left. You shoulda called me." He settles Sam into the passengers seat. Sam wishes he could stop leaning into Dean's hands.

Sam stares dramatically out of the window the whole ride back, and Dean has to make the conscious decision not to roll his eyes. Sam can smell Dean’s Old Spice over the rust of his blood. He digs his palm into what feels like the beginning of a nasty bruise.

Sam stumbles into the motel room because he’s still pretty drunk and he won’t let Dean touch him.

“Here, let me see,” Dean mumbles, tugging lightly at Sam’s shirt.

“‘S fine,” Sam backs away, shuffles closer to the bathroom. Dean highly doubts it is, but he doesn't push it.

“Look, you’re drunk, and I’m less drunk, so I need to see how bad it is before you pass out.”

“I can take care of myself, Dean.”

“Can you?”

Sam doesn't have a good answer for that so he closes the bathroom door and starts running the shower. He knows Dean wants to help. He knows Dean loves him, or whatever, but Dean doesn’t _know_.

Dean was still awake when he got out. Sam hid under the covers until he heard Dean sigh and turn out the light.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“What for?”

Sam pretends not to hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I edited the shit out of this because I found my notes.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Water and suicidal Sam don't mix well. Dean feels left out on the Sam shitstorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!!!!! A new chapter!!!!! I hope you guys like it :)

 Dean was in the driver’s seat, humming along to Styx and trying to pass every car on the interstate. Sam was in the passenger's seat, staring out the window and imagining how pretty the snow would look covered in his blood.

“Sammy?”

Sam jumped a little, banging his head on the window. Dean rolled his eyes.

“You hungry? There’s a diner a few miles up,” Dean says.

Sam was starving.

“I’m good. Let’s go another hour or so and then see what there is.”

He imagined his brain matter splayed across street signs, his blood pooling, draining down the sewers,  _ relief _ .

“What’s going on up there?” Dean asks, knocking on Sam’s head.

“Ow, get off, Dean--” Sam grumbles, shoving Dean away.

“Calm down, bitch. You’re skirts riding up.”

* * *

 

Dean had left to hustle pool, Sam was exploring the town.

He found a dock, the white boards gently rocking under the full moon, sparkling down on the water in rivulets. It seemed like a nice place to contemplate suicide.

The thing was Sam hated himself. The secret to his success was that he fucking despised every inch of his body, of his insides. Sam hated himself.

He could deal with wanting Dean in terrible ways because he didn’t deserve not to, he could deal with broken bones and crushed femurs and stitches because that was more than he deserved. Nothing about him was worth saving, he wanted to die. He wanted out.

Sam wanted to get caught by the hunt of the month with enough time to kiss Dean goodbye, good and thoroughly. He wanted to die slowly and painfully, so right before the lights went out he could feel like he’s okay again. Like his sins had washed out of him with all the blood.

He tried not to think about his death that much. It was more than a little selfish of him, and he found if he thought about it too long he’d end up doing something stupid. Like drawing lines down his arm with knives right where Dean might see. But there were so many opportunities, so many times he was reminded why he should die. It was hard.

See, the thing about Sam Winchester was that he was a coward. He couldn’t handle his emotions and he couldn’t handle losing Dean and he couldn’t handle the fallout. He’s got the mindset of a sixteen year old kid who still hates his Dad and wants his independence, but couldn’t work anything out by himself.

Sam sat on the edge of the dock, plunking his feet in the water. The cold shock was good, it cleared out some of the fog in his brain. He slipped in further, until he was up to his chin in murky lake water, shivering, numb.

He was detached from the cold, he could feel is freezing against his skin but he didn’t mind it. It woke him up. He gulped in a breath and sank down, swaw towards the bottom.  He counted to ten and figured if he didn’t make it out, he wouldn’t really care too bad.

It wasn’t until his insides were burning with freezing lake water that he wished he would have picked a better way to go. He could feel himself slipping, the water dragging him down, his insides expanding from the oxygen deprivation. His vision was blotting out by the time he got to air.

He threw up so much water he wondered how he was still alive.

Sam laid on the dock until his insides felt less sloshy with water, until his body felt a little less water logged. His brain cleared out again, the cold reeled him back in and he realized he almost killed himself. 

Dean would kill him if he knew. 

Sam wishes he would have counted to twenty.

Dean is dead to the world when Sam finally makes it back. He peels his clothes off lethargically and throws them in the tub, pulls on a hoodie and sweats and curls under his too small blankets. He’s trembling  too hard to sleep.

* * *

 

“What gives?” Dean asks, holding Sam’s drenched clothes in his hand.

“I fell in a lake.”

“Right.”

Sam shivers. Dean tells him he’s an idiot. Sam knows all about cold shock.

He showers in burning hot water, tries to wash the cold off his bones. He gets out shivering. He makes scalding hot coffee and burns it down his throat and he wants to throw up. What time is it? What was Dean doing? He couldn’t remember if Dean went out on a case, if he was in danger. It made Sam tremble. Dean might be dead.

Dean get’s home and Sam is lying in bed, half asleep.

“Where were you?” Sam asks. Dean takes off his jacket, gets a beer from the fridge. “Dean, I’m freezing.”

Dean didn’t look up.

“Dean.”

Was Sam even talking out loud?

“ _ Dean _ .”

“Sammy?”

“I’m c-cold.” His teeth were slamming together, his jaw was locked up.

“Hey man, you’re not looking too good,” Dean says, checking the temperature of his forehead.

“Please, Dean. ‘M cold,” Sam said again. Dean ignored him, got out their first aid kit and checked Sam’s temperature with their cheap thermometer.

“Dammit,” Dean grumbles, heading for the bathroom.

“Dean,” Sam whined. He could get up and follow him, get his own stupid blankets but his muscles were seizing up, aching harshly and then calming back down until they were too limp and lethargic to move.

Dean came back with a wet towel and started blotting Sam’s face.

“Mng--D’n--’S too cold--”

“You’re at 102.7. We need to get you below 100 before I give you any blankets. Sorry, Sammy, I’ll be quick.”

He wasn’t.

Sam was shivering and clutching at himself, squeezing his eyes against his cold shakes and Dean wouldn’t touch him. He wouldn’t risk transferring body heat, he had to get the fever down. Sam was freezing.

Finally,  _ finally _ , Dean decided Sam’s fever was down enough to get him a blanket.

“Freaking, pneumonia, Sam. Of course you get an pneumonia.”

Sam was too out of it and in too much pain for the next couple of days to filter himself. He curled up in Dean’s lap, let Dean comb his hair with his fingers and take care of him. 

“Are we on a case?” Sam asked the second time woke up.

“No, Sammy. You’re sick, because you’re an idiot.”

“Oh.” 

“Here. You want some soup?” Dean poured a bowl of chicken noodle before Sam could comprehend the question.

“I can’t, I’m too full,” Sam tells Dean, pushing the bowl back into Dean’s hands.

“You haven’t eaten anything in four days, you’re not full,” Dean laughs, eyes crinkling down at Sam.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam says warily. He’s gone longer on less food.

“You have to eat.”

Sam eats to make Dean feel better, then throws it up an hour later. He hopes Dean feels at least a little guilty.

“How did you even fall into a lake?” Dean asks, holding Sam’s hair back, balancing the bucket in Sam’s lap. Sam knows he’s not supposed to answer this one, because he didn’t fucking fall.

The third time he wakes up, he’s on a lot of drugs Dean scrounged up that will probably help, but maybe not.

“Are you feeling better?” Dean asks, not even bothering with soup this time.

“I’m okay.”

Dean looks at him for a second, and maybe Sam’s just high but he thinks he sees some concern there.

“You’re not, Sam. You have nightmares, you don’t eat. You’re not happy, man. I’m not stupid. And I don’t know what happened with this lake thing, but you didn’t fall in,” Dean said. It made him feel open and degraded that Dean  _ knew _ .

“I’m fucking ruining this.” Dean didn’t answer. Or maybe he did, and Sam didn’t notice. “You don’t even know. Man, you don’t even know.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t--”

“Cut the bullshit, Sam.”

“I fell in a lake.”

“No. You didn’t.”

Sam can see his story shrivelling up, Dean getting more and more pissed. Sam’s stomach picks a good time to clench up, and Dean feels bad enough to drop the subject.

Sam was too high to remember it the next day and Dean was too proud to bring it up. They’re out of town the next week, Sam’s pneumonia reduced to a head cold. Dean’s being extra nice, leaving the radio off and stopping at a convenience store to pick up some tylenol. He doesn’t say anything.


	4. What was May Second, Again?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of events from Sam's life, not really related to each other and not really meant to mean anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the highlights from a month in Sam's shoes. Thanks for reading guys :)

The poltergeist in Tennessee turned out to be a demon, which really sucked because demons like to talk.

 

The catch had been pretty cut and dry. Sam was thrown into a wall, Dean lured the thing into the devil's trap, they’d tortured it for information. The thing must have been pretty low on the pecking order, because it knew exactly jack shit. But Dean was still holding out hope. Maybe if they tried a little harder it would give them something. Maybe.

 

“Okay,” Dean rubbed his eyes heavily. “I’m gonna see what we have in the trunk. I’ll be back.”

 

Sam stared at the middle aged man the thing was wearing. He wondered how long the guy had been possessed, how many police charges he was gonna have to deal with after they exorcised him.

 

“Sam Winchester. Psycho boy with a thing for his brother.”

 

Sam turned away from it, started pouring more holy water on his knife.

 

“Hey, it doesn’t bother me. I guess it’s not as bad as getting your girlfriend killed.” The thing eyed Sam suspiciously, like he thought Sam might break. “You’re pathetic. You keep lying like he won’t find out someday. This will break him, Sam. You’re selfish.”

 

Sam couldn’t even argue, because it was true. It was so fucking true. Then Dean was back, and he was exorcising the middle aged man, and Sam wasn’t talking.

 

The guy was in pretty bad shape, but it wasn’t hospital bad. Just before they dropped him off at the nearest bus stop, he looked Sam dead in the eye and asked him how he could live with himself. Sam said he didn’t know. There’s a sticky couple of seconds when Sam’s scared the guy might rat him out, that almost twenty years of secrets were about to crush him to death. But the guy just shook his head and got on the bus.

 

They go back to the motel, Dean pissed because the hunt was a bust. He grumbles and turns on the TV to some old black and white station. Sam was so selfish. He was ten feet away from his big brother, the one thing he really _wanted_ and Dean didn’t know. Sam’s back was sore and he thinks he probably bruised a rib, but it didn’t even begin to make up for this. He couldn’t make up for this.

 

“You goin’ to bed?” Dean asks, because Sam is laying down and staring at nothing.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Dean gets up to turn off the lights and Sam lets him.

* * *

Sometimes, Sam really hates Dean.

 

He’s got the gun in his mouth and he’s made his peace with life and death and every shitty thing in between and he’s ready. He’s about to pull the trigger. He’s about to make up for everything. But he knows Dean, and he doesn’t want this to be what kills his brother.

 

Yeah. Sometimes he really hates Dean.

* * *

 

Sam was sick and shaky and he might throw up in the next hour, but Dean wanted dinner so Sam was cooking it.

 

It was some stir fry in a can bullshit, he was probably burning it but Dean would eat it anyway. Sam didn’t think he had a cold, he hadn’t had one since high school. It wasn’t the flu or a virus, but he was dizzy as hell. Maybe he should lay down.

 

He was staring at his hands again, picturing them choking Dean, picturing them jacking Dean off, picturing them slicing his wrists. He pictures himself falling asleep and never waking up, feels the relief of finally getting out. He pictures Dean, left behind and hunting sloppy and angry. It pisses Sam off, that he has to worry about Dean. It wasn’t fair, that he had to stick around for fucking _Dean_. That Dean still wanted to take care of him, even after everything. That Dean was so fucking naive he couldn’t even see Sam strait.

 

Sam stares at his hands and wishes they were as scarred as he felt they were. Scarred with his mistakes, with the people he’s killed. Sam was a goddamn travesty.

 

He’s listing to the side, the stove is spinning, and the food smells so strong Sam gags. He catches himself, breathes deep and shoves the pot of stir fry out of the way, frantic (it was burning now anyway). He sets his hand on the burning stove and bites down his discomfort. He swallows the blood that rushes up through his lip, swallows the smell of burning flesh, until he realizes he should probably stop and he pulls his hand away.

 

Sam curls up on the floor, clutching his hand and fuck you, he’s not crying. The overwhelming need to not _be_ was pushed aside for the aching burn, the frying of his nerves. He relishes it, makes himself feel every twitch of his hand. When it dies down to a tolerable ache, he runs his hand under cold water and dresses it. He’s on autopilot, not registering putting the burn cream on and wrapping it. He doesn’t remember.

 

He tells Dean he tripped and fell on the stove, and Dean would probably ask to see it if he wasn't busy shoving his face with stir fry.

* * *

 

They’re in a diner, Sam is barely making the effort to move his salad around on his plate because Dean is flirting with the waitress.

 

They take it back to Dean’s car, on her break. Of course Sam doesn’t mind, of course it’s okay. Of course Sam wants him to fuck chicks like a normal guy right where Sam sleeps. Of course Sam wants his brother to be happy.

 

He doesn’t finish his plate, even though he sits in the booth alone for an hour. He stares at the space where Dean used to be, imagines his big brother fucking the beautiful waitress in the backseat. At least Dean got out half way normal. Maybe he had to carry the weight for both of them, but at least he didn’t want to screw his brother.

 

Dean gets back smug and relaxed. The waitress flirts with Dean until they’re driving away. The car smelled like sex and pie and Dean. Sam has to dig his pocket knife into his leg to keep himself composed.

* * *

 

Sam was having a bad day. Things had escalated (he'd broken his shoe, he’d dropped all their quarters at the laundromat and the old lady next to him had stolen half of them, then he’d caught his finger in the car door and bruised it to hell, and then Dean had gotten pissed about his mood) to a point where Dean had just given up on Sam and left.

 

Maybe it was the bad luck that the knife he was sharpening dropped, and maybe it was the bad luck that made Sam catch it just right, so that it bit into his wrist. Or maybe that was just Sam. Either way, he had a gushing wound and a pair of ruined jeans.

 

He takes it to the sink, where he can watch his blood drip down his too big hand and swirl down the drain. He watches the red run out of him until he almost falls over from blood loss. He stitches and cleans and drinks and washes away all the blood before Dean even starts his way home.


End file.
